Peeing My Pants In Coach Tate’s Class

Oh but you see, I didn’t!!! I swear.  I was falsely accused, and I’ve been serving this sentence—doing time—for years.  I’ve never peed my pants.  (Post partum jump roping just does not count.)

There I sat in Coach Tate’s class.  The class was mainly sophomores with a few juniors who dreaded the very sight of us underclassmen.   Coach Tate stood at the front of the classroom with a marker in his hand reviewing the cognitive functions and behavorial issues we needed to know in order to be successful men and women in the world.  I paid close attention.

And it was then I felt a strange sensation in the crotch area of my pants.  Oh Dear Lord!  I slowly eased back in my seat to take a careful peak at how bad the situation was. Girls do this same kind of stiff-chinned, downward peak when they try to subtly check out their own chest.   Oh no, no, no.  My pants were wet.

Paralyzed, my mind started racing.  I ran through the possible explanations I could give my classmates for my wet crotch.   The spot was there before class. You saw it right, Randy? Randy Klima, who once slept through a bomb threat, was now sleeping in the desk next to me.  Yes, that’s what I’ll do.  I’ll act casual about it and say that Randy and I were joking around in the hall and he splashed me at the water fountain. Yeah. It made a perfect pee spot but that was  going to be a coincidence people.  I took deep breaths and peered at the wet spot again.  I was so confused.  Could this be a cognitive malfunction?  My body relieving itself without me knowing?  Wait, why is it not warm?  Oh Dear God I have cancer!  I shot out of my desk shrieking, “My pants are wet, and I don’t know why! Something’s wrong with me. Look, look right here!” I hiked up my leg for all to see.

Oh, the horror.  The boys came alive, pointing, shouting, some even falling out of their desks laughing.  One yelled, “Jack, you pissed yourself!”  Oh my…abort …abort!

It was too late; they kept going.  The girls chimed in after the initial shock but with a little more sympathy.  “Aww, do you want me to go to the restroom with you?” Coach Tate’s shifting eyes and tight lips said it all.  He was embarrassed for me.  His lack of belief sent me scrambling.  I advanced, “There must be a leak in the desk!” So I turned it over to examine.  Nothing. I then jumped on the desk to look for a leak in the ceiling.  My absurd responses were weakening my case.  I gave up. I guess peeing in your pants wasn’t the worse thing…frantically denying that you hadn’t in front of class was far worse.

This occurred in the Spring and on the last day of school, I found out that I was neither terminally ill nor crazy.  WebMD search results: Austin Foster was the cause.  Austin, a red-headed, quiet boy who sat in front of me, pulled the greatest tomfoolery.  With a smirk, he confessed he was behind it all and pulled out this homemade contraption that consisted of a long, thin tube with a bulb on the end. He said that he had fed the tube through the gap in the back of his chair and just kept feeding until he felt it wouldn’t go any further. Yeah, that’s because it hit my feminine parts!  He said he took a gamble not knowing the location and started pumping the bulb.  Well, he got lucky.  I was strangely impressed—not because of his ingenuity or gall but because he kept quiet about the whole thing.  Wish I had kept quiet from the first sign of wetness. -ohbygolly


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